Milan

CAMPARINO: Opened in 1915 by Davide Campari which quickly became the hub of Milanese life and of the fashions sported by its patrons.

The final act of the Campari tale takes me back to Milan, foggy at touchdown and golden by the time I check in at the Rosa Grand and clock familiar faces from the Campari Collective, last together in September of last year. Rich Woods, (of Duck & Waffle/Sushi Samba bar fame) whom I’d styled a grey tartan waistcoat in the ‘London’ scene for the Campari Diaries – The Legend of Red Hand short film, beams as he tells me how much he’s looking forward to the screening.

We’re treated to a tour of a few spots around town – three to be exact – and I’m counting the hours till lunch at Bar Basso – hoping for a cheeky Negroni Sbagliato that is rumoured to be the size of an average face. Elaborate film sets that imitate the landscape of a New York bar or a London rooftop have been packed away, Milan is served neat. At Laboratorio Paravicini we learn the essence of handcraft (the very element that defines a great Campari cocktail), and Il Profumo. And for your information: Negroni Sbagliato is indeed the size (and colour, if accounting for the Asian flush) of my face.

LABORATORIO PARAVICINI: The Milanese workshop opened in the 90s to bring back to people’s homes and lives decorative items with the warmth and “Sunday slowness” that industrial porcelain could never evoke.

BAR BASSO: One of the hottest a Milanese spots for local and international adoration since the invention of Negroni Sbagliato in 1972 by Mirko Stocchetto

IL PROFUMO: Experiencing a ‘fragrance journey’ that highlights the olfactory combinations that allude to the Campari flavour.

Campari is at home in Milan, a whopping 151 years since the opening of Caffe Campari (1867) and the illustrious Camparino (1915) at Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II by Davide Campari. The routine aperitif had become a legend at this very spot, decked in posters dating back to art nouveau, geometric furnishings, and red velvet seatings to top all off. Milan is a foolproof backdrop for The Legend of Red Hand, directed by Stefano Sollima, featuring Zoe Saldana (playing Mia Parc, an anagram of Campari) – scenes of which decorate my first encounter with Zoe not six months ago.

With Director Stefano Sollima, Zoe Saldana and Adriano Giannini.

The launch premiere of the short film paints the town red, quite literally speaking, speckled with scarlet robes of the Campari red variety. The six Red Hand bartenders are revealed at the height of the night, followed by all talents of the ‘Legend of Red Hand’. It’s a corker of a party. Throughout the night an occasional red hand could be spotted as the star bartenders disperse for celebration into the crowd.

I had one pair of leather trousers as a teenager. Contraband, of course. (And as genuine leather as your mum’s cast-iron skillet.) A true tiger-mother presumably would never condone her spawn to be exposed to any a lifestyle that might hint at the need of 1) weather-proof garb for helmetless fast-driving, 2) electric guitar(s), and 3) 1978 John Travolta. Tell me about it, stud. The noise it made when I walked in those trousers was not dissimilar to a packet of crisps dipped into car wax, and let’s say it was permeable as, well, your mum’s cast-iron skillet.

The secret to this item of rebellion was however, not the prospect of future-killing, homework-undoing and tramp-a-making. It was simply a teenage ploy for attention, because the first thing my mother would say is: How the damn do you wash these trousers? And you’d revel at the image of your very mother dabbing at your cheap (plastic) leather with anti-bacterial wipes in the name of laundry. REBELLION.

Because let’s be honest, good leather is like performance arts. It plants balls in your hipster panties, and gives moves like Jagger. Good leather like Calvin Klein Jeans’ Rebel Edge capsule collection, in which walking sounds nothing like squeaky crisps, but a Toyota Prius. (That shit be silent, and buttery.) This rebellion is against your goody-two-shoes self – Eat dessert first, write your to-do list on a banana peel; stand on the left, walk on the right, get yelled at, yell back. See? Good leather is a keeper.

O hai

I’ve decided to take the Saruman approach over the past menswear fashion weeks (London, Pitti, Milan, Paris) and have allocated eyes and ears to spy on distant lands while I sit in my tower in a big white (bath) robe. Here’s some of my picks from Milan, shot by one of my favourite streetstyle photographers who I was lucky to be able to commission, Jin Oh (who might remember, also shot this with me). I won’t lie, I was positively aching at the fact that I had volunteered to miss out on all this cute boys (and girls) action… Oh well, will have to put a ribbon in le husband’s hair this evening and make do.

Let me just answer that tickling question – did I peel off my striped-top and give it to Carrie while she waited topless on my bed? No. Not in that order anyway. I mean, no. We just happened to bring one top and they both happened to be striped – but picture us walking around Milan looking like girls who ran away from mime-school; amusing is one way to put it.

Anyhow. It always feels wonderful to be back in Milan, the intensity and… ubiquity of sunlight is really something here. Whenever someone tells me how a country’s climate make all the difference in a person’s temperament, I like to wave my cynicism stick at them (shaped like a frantically-purchased, over-priced corner-store umbrella, naturally), but in Milan I always stand corrected. I stood, in fact (but no miming, I swear), in awe of the well-dressed, well-groomed men and women, while happily soaking in the beauty of the sun-kissed city. It wasn’t necessarily hot or anything, but I loved the fact that light was so abundant until one moment around 9pm you look up to realise the sun has just quietly melted away. Whereas in London the sun is really just a matter of abruptly switching it ON or OFF – at 7pm the sun goes OFF; in October, the sun goes OFF. Sometimes it does disco-hour and does ON-OFF-ON-OFF for half the day, like how we all played with the light-switch when we were seven or eight. I tell you, if I find that kid who’s behind this perverted weather I will put it in a box and send it to Korea.

As a rare drinker the closest I’ve had to the Campari red is probably a squirt of a strawberry-fragrance dishwash liquid that landed on my lip while trying to drown a mosquito on the windowsill. Milla Jovovich was the obvious bait for me on this quick trip to Milan, as I joined Campari celebrate their Campari 2012 Calendar named It’s the End of the World, Babyafter the popular belief that the world will end on the 21st of December 2012. Now, my personal opinion on that date is that it’s a load of rabbitpoop – you may quote me on the 22nd December – but if that gets Milla into 13 haute-couture dresses and throw a party then I’ll keep quiet for now. And how can I ever say no to Milan… I accidentally discovered marocchino (a miniature cappuccino with a cube of chocolate dunk for the sweetest last swig) and that was simply the best cure-in-a-cup for my travel exhaustion.